The clock read three-fifteen as the Drumloghan village sign came into view. She thought it might look familiar, but couldn’t recall ever being here before and would have had no reason to come as a child. The McConnell farm where she grew up was situated near the border, a few miles to the east, and on the rare occasion her parents took her to church they went to St Michael’s in nearby Ballydown. She was early and had time to spare so toyed with the notion of driving past The Sisters which she knew was only five minutes away, but decided against indulging in morbid curiosity. She had better things to do.
She parked at the end of a narrow lane that had stone walls on either side, next to a tiny red Hyundai which she assumed must belong to Oona. Immediately in front were wrought iron gates to a pathway that led up to the church. She checked the Find My app on her phone; Jack was halfway between Derry and the coast so he’d be at Maguire’s place in about twenty minutes. She rehearsed the steps again in her mind, reassessed the time they’d allowed and was filled with apprehension. She’d had little or no time to herself since that day in the cottage and no time to properly think through what she was doing.
Initially, the imperative had been to escape; get away from the cottage where she’d thought she’d been safe but which had, nevertheless, been discovered by Maguire and his mob. Her cover had been inadvertently blown by Jack Fleming out of an apparent concern for her wellbeing. If he hadn’t tracked her down first, she wouldn’t be sitting outside this church waiting for an audience with the devil. It was all Jack’s idea, borne out of his determination to find her and find out all about her. She would have been flattered had she not been so suspicious of him.
Paddy McConnell was the first man she ever knew. He was a gentle giant, a man devoted to his wife and child, deferring to the irrepressible Maureen at all times even though there was never any doubt he was in charge. When she was little, he’d lift her onto his horse and take her for a ride around the yard, taught her how to milk the cows and collect the eggs and read her stories in bed. Her daddy was a nice man and bad men had come and killed him and killed her mammy too. Bad men had featured ever since; gobshite customers in the pub tryin’ to get their hole, the violent drunk she took up with who got his kicks hittin’ her, those arrogant struttin’ feckers in her office who resented a woman bein’ better at her job than them, and above all, the feckin’ priest whose church she now sat outside, rapin’ her real mammy and years later, doin’ the same to her. The exception had been Eamonn Flynn, a man who treated her with respect enough to pour out his heart to her, but let his delusions lead him down the road to destruction and the shock waves he’d created were still coming. His legacy was a curse she wouldn’t wish on anyone.
So now, here she was alone with her thoughts. For the moment, she was no longer at risk. She had luxury transportation, fifteen million quid and a passport. She could drive away now, head to Dublin and fly out to Timbuktu if she wanted. What the feck are you doin’ here Caitlín McConnell? But then, she knew exactly what she was doing here. She was here because of Jack, a hapless fool whose infatuation with some strange woman he met on a beach had blinded him to how toxic she really was, such that his daughter’s life was at stake, as now, was his.
It wasn’t his fault. She’d asked a strange man into her life for an hour, that was all, and she’d asked him because her instinct told her he was a good man like her daddy was a good man, and although she couldn’t bring herself to trust him, she trusted herself even less, until her instincts had proved to be right. It wasn’t Jack’s fault; he was a victim too.
She stared through the windscreen at the eight-hundred-year-old stone building looming over her, the epicentre of the evil that had plagued her even before she was born and which, to this day, continued to plague her and anyone she touched. She refused to acknowledge its power was greater than hers, because her power was rooted in something far greater. He said he loves you, Caitlín. Feck! No one ever said that to me before; not ever. I feel sick with worry and apprehension thinkin’ about him and at the same time, high as a feckin’ kite, so I do. Is that what it’s supposed to feel like? She sensed a profound new resolve. There would be no running away; there would be retribution and finally, closure.
***
The last leg of the journey had been slow even though the winding, single-track road was devoid of oncoming traffic. From time to time, he caught a glimpse of the Atlantic in the fading gloom of the afternoon, the grey, infinite expanse, cold and intimidating. Eventually, a mediaeval structure appeared on a promontory and Larnock Castle revealed itself, standing proud and alone against the vast ocean backdrop, the concrete helipad in the centre of the lawn incongruous in the ancient setting. Jack identified the chopper immediately. A Bell 412, the means of Charlie’s rapid transfer from Milton to Larnock.
The two men in black followed Jack up the stone steps where a third was waiting in the open doorway. He turned and led the way into a vaulted entrance hall that featured stone pillars and arched oak doors guarded on each side by knights in armour. A wide oak staircase carpeted in maroon ascended ahead of him, splitting left and right on the landing where, on the wall ahead looking down on him, was the image of a sword-wielding king on a white horse and in big numerals underneath, the year 1690.
“Pay your respects to King Billy, Jack.” A familiar voice rang out across the stone hall. Rowan Maguire was shorter, fatter and balder than he’d expected, but still managed to exude authority through his inimitable mix of bonhomie and menace. Donegal’s top Orangeman marched towards him, swinging arms as he would on the 12th of July, but with all the elegance of a waddling duck. He held out a hand in greeting and Jack ignored it. He had already anticipated the move and decided that until he was satisfied Charlie was safe and well, he would eschew the pleasantries.
“Where’s Charlie?”
“Where’s the hoor?” The sneer-like grin looked forced, but Jack still felt like he had the upper hand, for now.
“We’ll get down to business the moment I’ve seen my daughter is safe and well. Not before. I understand time is of the essence?”
The smile quickly faded and Maguire cast a glance over Jack’s shoulder. “Stay here boys.” He turned and Jack followed him through one of the arched doors into an oak-panelled drawing room. Charlie was sitting in front of a log fire, a middle-aged woman next to her on the sofa, holding her hand.
“Daddy!” She leapt to her feet and ran to him.
He picked her up and swung her around. “Hello sweetheart. How are you doing?”
“I’m fine, but looking forward to going home,” she gushed but her pupils were dilated, her skin pasty and drawn. The woman had stood up and was now standing next to Maguire; slim, silver-grey hair, well dressed and at least three inches taller. She looked kindly and concerned, the antithesis of a gangster’s moll.
“I’m Kathleen Maguire, Mr Fleming, Rowan’s wife.” She held out a slender and perfectly manicured hand, the nails glowing with a subtle polish. The gentleman in him set aside his anger and he took her hand.
“I trust you’ve been looking after my daughter?”
“We’ve had a fun time, haven’t we Charlie?” she said, and Charlie nodded hesitantly. “I’m sorry for the inconvenience. Under different circumstances, we would love to have had you both here as our guests, but my husband’s business affairs seem to have taken precedence.” She cast a look of disdain at Maguire, an attitude redolent of a middle age relationship matured over decades of marriage. Jack was left in no doubt Kathleen Maguire was perturbed by the whole incident, yet pragmatic enough to accept it as necessary. How far her pragmatism would ultimately stretch was something he couldn’t judge. “Rowan, take Mr Fleming into the library and you can discuss your business in private. Charlie and I will wait for you here.” She held out a hand and Charlie seemed content to take it. Jack was confused. He discerned no malign intent from the woman, but the fact remained she was married to a villain and, probably not for the first time, an accomplice to a crime.
“Back soon sweetheart.” Jack let her go and followed Maguire through an oak door into another room. Tall bookcases lined two walls; an impressive collection of oil paintings adorned the others, most depicting the same, red-jacketed monarch flourishing a sword on a rearing white horse, others showing columns of men in suits, bowler hats and oranges sashes marching to pipes and drums. Maguire poured two whiskeys from a crystal decanter and handed him a glass. Jack was torn between craving the seduction of alcohol and the desire to keep a clear head. In the end, he easily convinced himself a sip or two would be beneficial.
“Now, Jack. I have about twenty-four hours in which to complete an extremely important transaction and Miss McConnell seems to be holdin’ the key. I’m surprised and frankly dismayed she is not here with you as promised.”
“I don’t remember promising to bring her here. I just promised to help you out of your little difficulty in exchange for the release of my daughter. The one you forcibly abducted.”
“Let’s not get emotional about this Jack. We didn’t harm her. We just wanted to focus your attention on the importance of the matter. I trust you’ve managed to impress on Miss McConnell the importance of it too.”
“I’ve certainly done that.”
“Then why isn’t she here?” Jack sipped the whiskey. It was unlike anything he’d had before and undoubtedly expensive.
“Two reasons. Firstly, she didn’t want to come anywhere near you. She’s afraid of what you might do to her; understandable when you’re the guy who sent two punks with guns threatening to kill her.”
“One of those punks…”
“Yeah, I know. Your brother-in-law. Doesn’t stop him being a punk though does it? I take it you didn’t try and persuade Kathleen I killed him otherwise she wouldn’t have been so welcoming.”
“I know what happened. Mikey messed up. He doesn’t work for me anymore.”
“No, I’m sure he doesn’t, and I bet he got more than a P45.”
“You have a poor opinion of me.”
“What do you expect, Maguire? You’re a villain. That’s what villains do isn’t it?” That’s the whiskey talking Jack. Calm it. Maguire could have exploded with rage, but he would have taken it as much as a compliment as he would an insult. It would suit him for Jack to know how easy he could dispose of them if he wanted to and it suited Jack to know there had not been some grave misunderstanding in which Maguire had been unfairly maligned. They each sipped their drinks, regarding each other warily. “And she thinks you murdered Eamonn Flynn.”
Maguire snorted in derision. “I told you. The bastard killed hissel’. I’ve no reason to lie about that. He killed hissel’ so he wouldn’t have to answer for crimes against his family, his religion and his sacred order. If he hadn’t killed hissel’ I would have made him tell me what he’d done so I could rectify the damage he caused. If he hadn’t killed hissel’ that hoor wouldn’t be hidin’ hersel’ away with my money and you wouldn’t be here.”
“She’s not a whore.”
“What is she then?” Maguire was getting wound up; the whiskey fuelling his anger. He reached for the decanter, and poured himself a refill, then proffered it to Jack, who put a hand over his glass.
“She’s an unwilling participant in your family dispute. She’s fragile and she’s on the edge. She’s liable to crack and do anything if you push her, so I suggest we all stay calm. She was never part of this conspiracy against you. That was all Flynn’s idea. I really don’t know what it’s about and I don’t care. She doesn’t want your money; she just thinks you deserve to suffer because of what you did to him.”
“I don’t believe you. She’s played you for a fool, so she has, just like she played that Fenian. She’s a feckin’ accountant just like him. She put him up to it, flashed her feckin’ eyelashes and dropped her knickers. Then she dumps him and runs off with the money, so he tops hissel’ when he realises what a feckin’ eejit he’s been. Then when I turn up the heat, she hits on some eejit Sassenach wantin’ his hole and tells him this story about the bad men chasin’ her, and here you are, loverboy, playin’ her game the way she wants it. By now she’s probably halfway to feckin’ Bombay for all you know.”
“I know exactly where she is.” Jack said it with conviction, but as much to reassure himself as counter Maguire’s argument. He’d already been down the road of suspecting Caitlín’s motives, assessing the likelihood she was actually a hustler and a thief before simple logic ruled it out. He couldn’t guarantee he hadn’t missed some vital piece of information that showed everything in a totally new light, but he’d seen the evidence and he trusted his heart. He looked at his watch, wondering when she would text, but he’d been provoked, and needed to hit back.
“You turned up the heat on Louise Harrison though, didn’t you? All the way.”
Maguire’s face darkened. “What do you know about her?”
“She unwittingly led you to Caitlín, but she asked too many embarrassing questions about your role in Flynn’s death and got too close to exposing the truth about you and your criminality. As soon as she became less of a help and more of a hindrance, you snuffed her out.”
Maguire waved a hand in the air dismissively “You know nothin’.”
“Are you denying it?”
“You fuckin’ well bet I am!” The strength of the denial took him aback. He’d judged Maguire to be one who would take kudos for the power he held over people’s lives and the ability to operate on any level with impunity. “I don’t go around murderin’ wee lassies! Traitors and Fenians are fair game, but not wee lassies!” He banged the desktop with his fist.
“So how does she end up with three bullets in the back of the head?”
“Oh, we were there, so we were. Outside the pub waitin’. My boys were told to bring her in for a wee chat, that’s all. I wanted to find out if she’d been in contact with the hoor and to warn her off sniffin’ around. My boys saw it all, saw the car, saw balaclava man jump out and shoot her three times and drive off…”
“I don’t believe you.”
“…in a fuckin’ Alfa Romeo!”
“So?” But Jack knew exactly what he was saying. On the surface, the make of car was a tenuous connection, but coupled with the knowledge he already had, and the fact that Maguire had no need to defend himself, explained it all.
“I don’t know what else she was up to, but it must have been pretty fuckin’ heavy.”
Jack knew exactly what she’d been up to and that it was of more significance to Maguire than he could imagine. He might make it clear to him in due course, but for now he simply reflected on the forces at work, and they were more powerful than the thug sitting in front of him.
“She’ll call or text soon.”
“Well, she better had. For your sake.”
“And all this for money?”
“Money?” barked Maguire. “Is that what you think this is all about? Money? You come wi’ me. I’ll show you somethin’.”
***
Caitlín let herself into St Patrick’s church by the main entrance door. At the end of the aisle, twenty or more candles flickered in their holders on an oak table, but she walked straight past them; she had no intention of saying a prayer for anyone, not in this place. Long ago, she would have made the sign of the cross and bow or curtsey before walking down the aisle towards the altar; it would have been disrespectful not to. But now there was only anger. She reached the steps of the altar and looked up at the giant crucifix; Jesus staring down at her, forlorn, bleeding, dying, Eamonn’s face looking out from under the crown of thorns. Then, the sound of an iron latch echoed around the stone walls and a diminutive woman appeared from a door in the corner.
“Hello. Is that Sineád?” said Oona O’Brien trotting towards her holding out both hands in welcome.
“Yes. You must be Oona.”
Oona took her hand and rubbed it in both of hers. They were warm and soft. “Your hands are cold, so they are. Come on through to the office. The fire’s on.”
She followed Oona down a short corridor with a staircase at one end and into a large office space with an open fire, two desks and several chairs. The walls on two sides were fitted with shelves, laden with box and lever arch files of various colours all labelled neatly in black marker pen. A third featured bookcases filled with leather-bound ledgers and books of all shapes and sizes. Three shelves were dedicated entirely to one subject: ‘The Sisters’.
“Sit yourself down darlin’ and I’ll make us a wee cuppa tea. The kettle’s hot. I’ll just be a wee minute.” Oona scurried off through a door in the corner and Caitlín could hear her busying herself in the kitchen. She looked around. The office was like something out of the sixties.
An old electric typewriter sat on an extension table at right angles to Oona’s desk but apart from a few filing trays and a combined telephone/fax machine the only other item of equipment was an oversized electric calculator with a paper roll; the one obvious omission, a computer screen of any sort.
The absence of modern technology didn’t seem incongruous, given the surroundings, but was surprising, nonetheless. Whatever the church had done with the millions donated by Eamonn, they hadn’t overindulged themselves. Oona returned with a fully laden tray and set it down on the desk. Teapot, milk jug, sugar bowl, cups, saucers, plates, fruitcake, it was all there.
“Goodness, Oona. I’m honoured.”
“I got out the best china. Not often we have guests at St Patrick’s,” she said, beaming with pleasure. The woman couldn’t be kindlier, and Caitlín suddenly felt a fraud. She fought the urge to apologise, get out and run. This was going to be harder than she’d ever imagined, but it was too late; the tea was poured, and the cake cut. Between bites, Oona talked about her life at St Patrick’s, how wonderful Father Donal had been and how blessed they all were to be serving God.
“I see you have a large number of files marked ‘The Sisters’?” asked Caitlín, feeling a tremor of fear at mentioning the name. Oona would either suspect some ulterior motive and bring the conversation to a swift close or continue to engage in innocent banter. It was the latter.
“The Sisters is a charity that’s closely aligned to St Patrick’s and Father Donal. He spends a lot of time there helpin’ Sister Shona and the other nuns and he’s in charge of fundraisin’. All the administration is done here and I keep all the records, so I do,” she said proudly. Caitlín watched the old lady with fascination. Oona O’Brien was either a brilliant actress or incredibly naïve not to know the hideous truth. “The Charity has been goin’ for more than two hundred years. Its mission is to help young ladies who have, shall we say, fallen on hard times, abandoned by their families and have nowhere else to go. It’s a wonderful cause, so it is.”
“I’m sure it is. In fact, I know that, because I spent a short time there myself.” She held her breath, waiting for the reaction, but Oona’s surprise appeared genuine and not in the least suspicious.
“I knew it!” She tapped her finger on the desktop in triumph. Caitlín watched her, expecting to be challenged or denounced, but all she saw was simple, pure joy at the satisfaction of being right. “I thought I recognised you!” She got to her feet and selected a black box file from the shelf. Inside were dozens of clear plastic wallets each with a white label and each containing photographs of various shapes and sizes. “Here it is. 1985.” Caitlín watched her pull the snaps out of the wallet and spread them on her desk. It took her a less than a minute. “Aha!” She studied the picture with glee and handed it to Caitlín. “The name threw me. I knew we’d never had a Sineád O’Callaghan at The Sisters.”
Caitlín noticed her own hand was shaking. She raised the polaroid and saw herself in the picture. Long red, curly hair, green eyes, freckles. A teenager in a nightdress peaceful and serene. She didn’t remember it being taken, but how could she? She wasn’t even born. She let out an involuntary moan, an unintelligible sound that came from deep within her gut and she put a hand over her mouth in an attempt to stifle it.
“Do you know who that is?” said Oona, eyes open wide in anticipation.
Caitlín nodded, almost unable to speak. “Is that my mammy?” she croaked.
“Aye darlin’. That’s wee Mary Keane and you’re the daughter she named Oona, after me!” she said with delight. “If I remember, you were adopted by the McConnells and they decided to call you Caitlín. Is that right?” Caitlín nodded again. “See, I never forget.” She watched Oona rifle through a wallet dated 1998 and plucked out another picture, this time bigger in size. She passed it across, and Caitlín put them side by side. Mother and daughter, the resemblance remarkable and unmistakeable. “There you go. That’s you so it is. You must be about twelve. You’re the spittin’ image of yer mammy, so you are.” She plucked a paper tissue from a box and handed it Caitlín, who wiped away a tear from the corner of each eye.
“I’m sorry. I’m just a bit overcome. I never saw a picture of my mammy before.”
“Och that’s okay darlin’. I understand. But how come you call yersel’ Sineád?” Caitlín took a moment to gather her senses. She needed to avoid this one as best she could.
“I changed my name. Mammy and daddy McConnell were murdered.”
“Aye, I know,” said Oona. “That’s why you came back to The Sisters, isn’t it?” The satisfaction at solving the mystery had turned to sorrow at her misfortune, but she still had something on her mind. “But then I remember the day Sister Shona told me wee Caitlín had disappeared. Whatever happened to you?” Neither she nor Jack had anticipated Oona’s photographic memory. It was a question they hadn’t expected and for which she wasn’t prepared.
“I was very unhappy, that’s all. Weans run away all the time, so they do. But it all came right in the end.” She wanted to leave it at that, hoping Oona wouldn’t turn it into an interrogation, but if she knew about her, she would know her connection to Eamonn.
“Aye well, you’ve had a lot of sadness in your young life, so you have.” The woman was kind. She was someone she would have hugged, someone on whose shoulder she would have cried, someone she would trust with her life. Yet Oona was part of this abomination, knowingly or otherwise, and in forty years could not possibly have failed to recognise the crimes that had been committed against her mother and herself and many others. It made no sense that people could be so kind and so evil at the same time. The God delusion was absolute and omnipotent. “And it goes on, so it does.”
“Does it?”
“Aye. Your brother too. It’s terrible, so it is.” She was past being astonished at the woman’s powers of recall. She really did know everything.
“It’s why I’m here Oona. To finish Eamonn’s work.”
***
Maguire laid his crystal tumbler on the desk and strode towards the bookcase. “C’mon!” he barked. He was more agitated than before and Jack had the sense one of his unknown variables was about to make itself known. “Come and see what this is all about!” He placed his tumbler down and followed. A six-foot wide section of bookcase moved magically out towards them, and then slid in front of the one next to it, revealing a stainless-steel door and a panel with two buttons. Maguire pressed one and the doors parted.
“In you go.”
“After you,” said Jack. Maguire shrugged, stepped inside and Jack followed. The elevator was small and, according to the information plate, capable of accommodating four people, but even with two seemed like a crush. The car descended slowly for twenty seconds, the doors opened, and Maguire stepped out. A thug in black turned to face them then stood aside to let them pass.
“C’mon Jack. Come and see my storeroom.”
It was a cave, almost circular, with a diameter of almost fifty yards and lit with a dazzling array of spotlights. A metal staircase spiralled upwards from the back wall to a stainless-steel door a hundred feet above their heads and to his right, a truck-sized roller-shutter door was set into the rock. In the middle, a twenty-five foot tautliner was being unloaded by an electric fork-lift that took pallets laden with wooden crates and cardboard boxes from its insides and deposited them on the smooth concrete floor.
Maguire led him across to where a group of men in overalls were prising open each crate, checking the contents and ticking off a manifest before a second fork-lift hoisted each pallet onto steel racking that reached thirty feet into the air. One man wielded a crowbar, levering up the lid of each crate to reveal the contents and they walked along a line of open crates, Jack watching in astonishment as Maguire, with eminent satisfaction, offered a running commentary.
“Semi-automatic Bren assault rifles from the Czech Republic,” he said, pointing at one then another. “Glock 17s from Austria. RPG’s from Russia. Refurbished M16s from the US and Mini Uzis from Israel.” He pointed to a stack of pallets lined up against the wall. “Plus several tons of Semtex, also from the Czechs and a hundred tons of Ammonium Nitrate manufactured in India, sent here via Lebanon.”
“So when does the war start?”
“Oh, it’s already started Jack. It started in 1690 with King Billy and it never ended. We’ve been goin’ through a quiet phase but it’s buildin’ up steam now and we’ve got to be ready.”
“Are you seriously suggesting you lot are still at war with the Catholics over three hundred years later?”
“Us lot?” Maguire’s passion was rising. “Us lot saved you English bastards from the evil clutches of the papacy. If we hadn’t stood our ground back then, you’d have ended up with a Catholic King answerable to Rome, with the inevitable revolution and republic to follow. And what thanks do we get? The British Government has always thought we’re just a feckin’ nuisance they could do without. They’ve been plottin’ for years to cut us loose and they’re gettin’ pretty close to achievin’ it. Well, we don’t need you to defend us from the Fenian hordes. We say bring it on. When the papists, aided and abetted by those cowards at Westminster, try and take our country back we’ll be ready for them, so we will.” He thrust a fist in the air and shouted. “No surrender!” and to a man, all the others stopped what they were doing and joined in the rallying cry.
“No surrender!”
***
“I want to make a donation. It was Eamonn’s dyin’ wish that I finish what he started. He wanted to join the priesthood and he always spoke fondly of Father Donal and the assistance he gave him in helpin’ him through the dark times.”
“Well Father Donal will be very pleased, so he will. He got the impression Eamonn was unhappy with the Church and the Charity.”
“Not at all. He just couldn’t convince his family that it was the right thing for him, and they sowed the seeds of doubt in his mind. I didn’t know he was my brother until after he died. But how did he find out he had a sister?” For the first time, Oona O’Brien looked uncomfortable and lost for words; like someone who’d betrayed a confidence and was at least hoping for understanding if not absolution. After all, confession was the route to forgiveness.
“Och, he was such an unhappy soul, so he was. He came to see the Father and he was real agitated. Father Donal wasn’t here, so I talked to him and he said he’d been to The Sisters and heard a rumour his mammy had given birth to him in there. He was cryin’ his eyes out, so he was. What could I do? I told him because he had a right to know. I told him it was right; that wee Mary Keane was his mammy. And then when I told him he had a sister too; he was utterly distraught. I couldn’t console him, and I didn’t understand why havin’ a sister should make him so unhappy. But he wouldn’t tell me. Next thing I hear, the poor lad has died.” Caitlín hung on every word of her testimony, searching for the duplicity but could find none. She harboured no illusions Oona would ever be an ally but felt satisfied she wasn’t an enemy. She sounds harmless and a bit dim, but I bet she’s razor sharp. Jack’s words flowed back to her. She wished he were here to judge for himself.
“Well, I don’t know either. I just know he wanted me to hand over all his money to the Church and The Sisters to do with as they saw fit.”
“That’s very kind.”
“Not at all. When will Father Donal be here?” Oona glanced at the clock on the wall.
“He said about four o’clock, so in another thirty minutes, but between you a